The Escape Artist

By Judith Katz

"Katz lives up to her first novel's potential in this moving, funny, wholly original picaresque about a nice Jewish girl. . . . The pasts and common destiny of two remarkable womenrelated with perfect timing in Sofia's convincing Yiddish-tinged Englishcome together beautifully in this nicely crafted, emotionally satisfying, and well-researched historical fiction."Publishers Weekly

The Escape Artist, a brilliant work of historical fiction . . . fast-paced and gorgeously written novel” Liberty Press

Set in the brothels and gangster dens of Jewish Buenos Aires at the beginning of the twentieth century, The Escape Artist catapults us into the lives of Sofia Teitelbaum and Hankus Lubarsky.

Sofia, a nice Jewish girl from Poland, is lured away from home by Tutsik Goldenberg, a wealthy traveling businessman who claims to be a lonely Argentine diamond merchant in search of a wife. Upon arriving in Buenos Aires, Tutsik dumps Sofia at his sister’s brothel.

Hankus, also a nice Jewish girl from Poland, is passing as a man. Having escaped the pogroms of Poland that killed her family, she lives her life as a handsome and mysterious magician and escape artist.

When Tutsik spots the talented juggler and acrobat Hankus he envisions success as his manager, seeing Hankus as the means to get out from under his sister’s thumb.

Sofia and Hankus fall in love and their attempts to walk the tightrope of love, freedom, and independence are quickly put to the test.

Sex, deception, magic, and love are the main ingredients of this tour de force novel by Lambda Literary Award winner Judith Katz. In The Escape Artist, Katz reveals that all human interactions consist of love and hate, deception and candor, altruism and self-interest. This is as true in our lives today as it was in an immigrant community at the turn of the last century.

Judith Katz is the author of two published novels, The Escape Artist and Running Fiercely Toward a High Thin Sound, which won a Lambda Literary Award for Best Lesbian Fiction. She has received Bush Foundation, McKnight Foundation, and National Endowment fellowships for fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bywater Books
• Release date: Mar 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781612940380

Book preview

PART ONE

Transatlantic Wedding Trick (1913)

1

Sweek Hankus! I saw a magic act in Warsaw once. I was sixteen years old—it seems a long time ago. My best friend Tamar and I were searching the marketplace for my father, it was late, and I had a message for him from home. Well, by the time we got to his bookstall it was all closed up, tight as a drum, and we couldn’t find him anywhere. The rest of the marketplace wasn’t exactly dead. Other stalls were open, and there were still plenty of people milling about. Close by, a handful of women bargained with vendors for the last rotten fish of the day while half a dozen Russian soldiers in sharp creased uniforms stood around smoking cigarettes and laughing at absolutely nothing. The vendors kept arguing when we walked past, but the soldiers whistled. We giggled because they embarrassed us. When we didn’t stop to admire their big guns, though, they spat at us: Jews!

Tamar’s thin shoulders went up around her ears. Mine did too, but I couldn’t resist the urge to turn around to those soldiers and stick out my tongue. One of them raised his hammy fist at us; the others held him back. In my heart of hearts I prayed that his comrades wouldn’t let him strangle a young girl in broad daylight. Still, one never knew: he was, after all, a soldier, and we were, after all, in Warsaw. Suddenly, I became terrified. I grabbed Tamar’s hand and we ran to join the small crowd that was gathered in the center of the square.

What they were watching, what Tamar and I watched too, was a man eating fire. He was remarkable, Hankus! In his satin vest and pantaloons he sucked in huge gulps of flame and then breathed them out again in a steady stream. But remarkable as that fire eater was, he was nothing compared to the magician who followed.

When he stepped forth and swirled about in his sorcerer’s cape, when he spun in a circle with his tall silk hat, those stupid soldiers with their quick fists and bad tempers disappeared from my mind as quickly as they’d frozen my heart. For what a magician he was!

He snapped his long fingers and gold coins spilled out the tips; he shook a crimson scarf and it turned into roses. He pulled a rabbit from his top hat and a dove from his own gleeful mouth. Then he clapped his hands and a tall woman with brassy blonde hair in a skinny blue gown appeared. He bowed to her like a gentleman, lifted her up with one hand, and laid her into a splendidly painted wooden box.

Tamar and I stood with our mouths wide open while the magician proffered a snaggle-toothed saw and waved it in the air. We held our breath as he proceeded to saw the beautiful box and the woman inside it in half. The woman screamed as the saw went back and forth across what was by now her belly, but to me it sounded fake. Then the magician pulled the two brightly colored box halves apart and she screamed again. That time it sounded a little more real. He tickled the feet of her sliced-in-two bottom and the top part of her laughed. He kissed her laughing mouth and her split-off toes curled. Then he pushed the two halves of the crated woman together and spun them around. A minute later he opened the box with great flourish and up she stood, all put together exactly the right way. I never forgot that for the rest of my life. It’s a lucky thing, too.

Tamar and I couldn’t stop talking as we walked home. How do you think she got back in one piece? I burst out.

It’s a trick, answered Tamar flatly. She snapped her fingers over a groszy and tried to make it disappear.

I know it’s a trick, but could you do it?

The woman’s part or the man’s? she asked, a wicked glint in her eye.

The woman’s part is harder, I said. Think of it. You have to act like you’re enjoying yourself even when you’re cut off from your own head. All the man has to do is wave a wand around and say some silly words.

I could smell spring in the breeze that blew up from the Vistula. It was still a little chilly, but the trees were budding. I watched Tamar’s red hair blow in that breeze; I also watched her lovely mouth. I wondered if I were to cut her in half whether that mouth would keep smiling mischievously, and if she screamed whether her scream would be anguished or false. Then I wondered what would happen if she were the magician and I were the one cut in two, and a little thrill went all the way through me.

It can’t be that hard, said Tamar. One last time she snapped her fingers. To our great satisfaction, the groszy was gone.

Let’s try it. My eyes flashed. You be the woman.

No, you, Tamar whispered, and she leaned over and kissed me right on the mouth in the middle of Grzybowski Street! Catch me! she shouted, and took off toward home.

It made my heart beat unbelievably hard to chase her, yet I chased her fast as I could. Her wondrous red hair blowing back in the breeze pulled me toward her, and the taste of her dazzling lips on my own. You have those same lips, Hankus. When I look at you now, when I saw you for the first time all those years ago, I thought of Tamar. Yes, I said to myself, Hankus Lubarsky has the same dangerous mouth as Tamar. She may be alive still, and maybe she isn’t. Maybe that speedy kiss she gave me on Grzybowski Street was the last Tamar ever bestowed on a woman, maybe it was one of many. I never kept track of her after I left Warsaw. For the longest time after I was taken—until I met you—I thought only of myself. I couldn’t imagine life in Warsaw after I was stolen from it. If I imagined such a life I was certain I would die of a broken heart.

But at that moment I didn’t think about exile, although my fate had been sealed that same afternoon. I thought about soldiers and also magicians and Tamar’s thick red hair and her lips on my own. I wanted her to kiss me again on the mouth as that magician had done his divided assistant. I wanted her to linger, though, to kiss me slowly and take all the time in the world. I wanted to catch her, take her up in my arms, and let her whisper love into my hungry ears.

When we got to our building I caught up with Tamar at last. Abracadabra! she shouted, and ran into her flat. I crept up the last flight to mine.

I heard my father’s voice then, and another man’s, laughing and chatting at the dining room table. I overheard them when, still flushed from my adventures, I came in the back door. You know, the stranger said, his voice like honey, my sister is a great fancier of books.

I had a feeling from the first moment I saw you that you hailed from a family of quality, answered my father. "In the morning, after shul, come with me to my stall and I will show you all the rare books I have for sale. Perhaps you can bring something back for your sister—something Polish to remind her of home!" My father, who was a reluctant salesman at best, sounded so enthusiastic about showing this man his goods that I wondered if he’d been drinking.

The man laughed, though not warmly. Oh, I’ll find her something. His Yiddish was Warsaw, but rolled into it was something else I couldn’t recognize, a different juiciness. I’d never heard an accent like that before.

Who’s talking to Papa?

My mother looked up from the soup she was stirring. "Some foreigner he met in shul this morning. His name is Goldenberg. I sent you out looking for Papa an hour ago. Where have you been?"

You found him yourself, so what does it matter? I poked my head into the dining room. Back then, Goldenberg’s sorry life hadn’t caught up with him yet, and he was a handsome man. Even I, with my heart set only on Tamar, could see that. But right away something about him rubbed me wrong. What’s he doing here?

"You’re awfully fresh. Your father met him this morning at shul, and now they’re having a cup of tea together, and in a minute, they’re leaving for evening prayers."

Since my grandmother’s death, my father had become the kind of man who went to synagogue morning and night. Always he used to go on the Shabbes and holidays, but now, with his dear mother suddenly in heaven, he became even more pious. He went whenever he could to say kaddish. I wanted to go with him, but it wasn’t allowed.

I craned my neck to see again into the other room. My mother poked me on the shoulder, handed me an onion and a kitchen knife, and said, You’ll get to talk to him yourself tomorrow. He’s coming for dinner.

I shivered.

"He’s coming to meet you," continued my mother.

But why?

Because he’s rich and single and lonesome, Sofia. Enough is enough, now chop.

That night I dreamed I was in a circus act. I had my back to a beautiful fire-red wall with yellow flames painted around the edges; my hands were tied tight by my sides. My mother appeared in her good black dress and a sparkling white apron. She wore a giant satin turban on her head with a pink ostrich feather stuck on the front. She looked absurd. She clapped her hands and out came my father, who wore a tuxedo and shiny gold cufflinks. His feet were bare. He carried an armload of kitchen knives that he passed to my mother, handles up; I wondered how he did it without cutting himself. Suddenly, there was a drumroll and a spotlight on me. My mother threw her first knife. It spun through the air and landed with a thunk just above my right shoulder. The second knife landed just above my left. Then she threw two at once. They whizzed toward me in slow motion, it seemed, one to the side of each of my ears. My father blindfolded her, spun her around in a circle three times, and pointed her in my direction. Hah! shouted my mother as she threw the remaining knives at me all at once. I held my breath and my heart was in my mouth as the knives came down thunk, thunk, thunk all around me. Then my mother whipped off her blindfold and both parents bowed. I was stuck to the board. Nobody helped. My parents were carried aloft by the crowd.

I woke in a sweat, my poor heart pounded, my throat was tight and completely dry. I imagined Tamar in my small bed beside me with her head on my neck. I cried.

The next day after school I came directly home as my mother ordered, for our dinner guest was coming and there was much to do. I braided the dough that my mother mixed up for the challah. I baked the honey cake all on my own. I chopped carrots and onions for our thin chicken soup. I set the table with newly polished silver. Once the kitchen and dining room were ready, it was time to prepare myself. I put on the good navy blue dress my mother set out for mc. It was one of those scratchy woolen affairs with a tight sailor collar we young girls were forced to wear at the time. I rolled on my one pair of black stockings and shoved my feet into the black shoes I wore only on the most special occasions. They pinched and I hated them, but what could I do? They were the best I had.

My mother pushed me down onto a hard wooden chair; she dragged a brush through my hair one hundred times and tied it back with a blue bow. She took a cake of rouge from her bureau drawer and rubbed her thumb in it, then she roughly brushed that thumb across my cheeks and over my lips. She shook her head. No matter how hard I try, I’ll never make you look a lady. Go down and see if Tamar can help.

I trudged down the steps one at a time to Tamar’s flat. I was embarrassed for her to see me with lipstick; I felt like a clown and Tamar looked perfect just plain. I found her with her sister at the kitchen table slicing beets and carrots. Her mother was in the other room polishing the candlesticks. You look nice, Tamar said. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking behind her eyes. Did they dress you up like that to meet your father’s new friend?

I nodded my head sadly.

It must be serious, to put all that stuff on your face.

Watch out, her sister took her beet-red fingers and pointed them at Tamar, or I’ll do it to you.

Just try it. Tamar picked up her own beet and aimed it at her sister.

I wanted to take one of the thick slices and make Tamar’s lips red as mine. Instead I asked, "What do you mean, serious?"

He might want to marry you. She took a big bite from her carrot. "That’s what they want sometimes when they go with your father to shul."

I’d die first.

Tell your parents no, she advised. Then she swallowed her carrot and kissed me good-bye.

Back in those days, Tutsik Goldenberg didn’t look like a weasel; he looked like a man. But a weasel he was and a slick one, too. I told you before he was handsome enough, but that wasn’t the first thing anyone noticed. First people noticed how clean he was, how he shimmered, they thought, from cleanliness. For his modern western clothes were spotless, his white teeth sparkled, and underneath his fingernails there was never a speck of dirt. Tutsik Goldenberg’s shoes glistened; they carried, it seemed, none of the dust that burdened other men. And always, in those bygone days, a gleaming white handkerchief sat in Tutsik Goldenberg’s breast pocket, plumped and ready to dab a tearful eye—his or anyone else’s.

Yes, everyone thought he glittered only from cleanliness until they realized that Tutsik Goldenberg glittered also from the diamonds he wore: on the stickpin that held his silk tie in place, the dazzling cufflinks that stuck out from his pressed linen jacket, the fat gold rings that jumped from the pinkies of both his well-manicured hands.

How could it be, some wondered, that a man so clean and not at all hard to look at could seem so oily on closer view? Surely it wasn’t the pomade he used only lightly to work his mass of curly hair into place, or the tiny bit of imported cologne he sprayed about himself like rich gentile men sometimes did. And it certainly wasn’t the well-blocked derby that he wore at a slight angle tilting to the left, nor the slim short cigars he smoked—but rarely, at least in Europe, in the company of ladies.

Back then, Tutsik Goldenberg always comported himself like a gentleman. No, it wasn’t until he opened his mouth that a clever person realized what an eel Tutsik Goldenberg was. Yes, so slippery was he that some people sensed trouble vaguely and patted their wallets unconsciously just after Tutsik Goldenberg left the room. People felt a certain chill, an iciness in the presence of Tutsik Goldenberg that caused them to pull their scarves tightly about them, for almost always a shudder went down the spine as Tutsik Goldenberg passed by.

But it wasn’t wallets Tutsik Goldenberg stole; if a man dropped a gulden or a few kopecks fell from a pocket, Tutsik Goldenberg was the first to pick them up and hand them back. If he won at craps, it was usually on the up and up. He didn’t cheat that way, although with pinochle it was another matter entirely. Tutsik Goldenberg did carry a knife and a set of brass knuckles, although he rarely showed these among refined people; he paid all debts incurred in Europe on time and with interest.

No, by all outward appearances, Tutsik Goldenberg was an honest man. But a person had a feeling after eating Shabbes dinner in his company, or smoking one of his fancy cigars, that Tutsik Goldenberg was up to no good. Yet no one in any of the tiny synagogues where he appeared on Shabbes eve during the European spring months could put a finger on it. And, of course, after he left a table and the father of the house felt for his wallet, and the wallet was still there—often fatter than before—everyone thought they were imagining things. For Tutsik Goldenberg was a rich young man, and he had come to pray in their humble synagogue and eat at their meager table on Friday night. Best of all, even on the Shabbes, he had offered the father of the house the sweetest deal.

Jewish men in the cities, big and small, of Poland and Russia, Hungary and Lithuania, fell over themselves to be the first to invite Tutsik Goldenberg home for Shabbes dinner. He had his pick of perfectly cooked chickens and cholent potatoes. More importantly, he had his pick of any of their daughters. For Tutsik Goldenberg was a modern Jew who looked to all like a high-class salesman. One thing bothered the fathers, though: if he was a salesman, where were his cases?

Ah, Goldenberg would say, but only to the fathers, as he sat at the tables well laid by their silent wives, I’m in the export business.

The fathers scratched their beards and nodded approval. They signaled the daughters to bring forth the good brandy. And what do you export? the fathers always asked, pouring the brandy themselves for their fancy stranger.

Diamonds and other fine jewels, Goldenberg told them in earnest.

"If you are an exporter of diamonds and other fine jewels, Reb Goldenberg, pardon my ignorance, but what could possibly bring you to our little shul? We are honest working men, but practically paupers. If you knew what this chicken cost me—"

Ah, Goldenberg would say, looking sadly into the eyes of that father, "I’m a rich man but I am a lonely man and thirty years old. I am looking in your little shul for a fine and wholesome wife to make the best part of my life complete."

"A Jewish wife?" the father of the house asked, just to be certain, for Goldenberg as a modern Jew wore no beard and might wish not to be encumbered by the weight of a woman’s piety.

A Jewish wife, the still boyish Goldcnberg concurred. "I have tried all the usual routes, the matchmakers and shadchens, I’ve met rich daughters from here to Chernigov (or Kovno or Plock), but all anyone is interested in is filling their own pockets. Ah, my friend, my host, if you only knew how my heart aches for a good Jewish wife . . ."

And with that the father’s eyes always twinkled and his mind worked fast. Have you met my Rachel? My Merl? My little Sofia? the father asked, then added quickly, Of course, her dowry is quite small—

To which Tutsik Goldenberg, each and every time, lifted his bejeweled hand and stopped the father right there. A dowry? My good man, I have told you already, money means nothing to me. But can your Racheleh cook? Does Merl sew? Will Sofia follow the Jewish laws to make me a happy man, in the kitchen and in the bedroom? For I have been lonely, lo, these many years, and what I truly desire is the companionship of a Jewish daughter, righteous and pure.

This daughter is a saint among women, the father always quickly confirmed. "The challah you ate tonight, this is a challah that she braided into a bird with her own dainty hands—my wife only stood and watched. The chicken soup that passed your lips? Her own creation. And as to the challah cover, the tablecloth, the napkin on your lap, my daughter finished these with her own dainty hands. Look, Reb Goldenberg, look here Pan Salesman, Mr. Broker in diamonds and other fine jewels—my daughter is a feast among women. You have only to gaze upon her luscious cherry of a mouth, her delicious green eyes, the rise of her delectable breasts to see what a fine wife she will be."

True enough, no matter how exaggerated a father’s claims to his daughter’s household abilities, that young woman of the house where Tutsik Goldenberg was treated like an honored Shabbes guest was always zaftig, flirtatious, and well under twenty. By the time brandy glasses were emptied and the dinner dishes cleared, wedding arrangements were practically made.

And this was no accident. For before Tutsik Goldenberg made his way to the Western Wall of any synagogue in Slutsk, Brody, Tarnopol, or Minsk, before he took a seat at the table of a down-and-out but upright citizen of Lodz or Lublin, Belz or Warsaw, Tutsik Goldenberg had done his homework.

He came into a town on Monday and got himself a room in a respectable inn as far from where the Jews lived as possible. He spent the next three days quietly shopping and watching the goods. He sat in kosher bakeries and bars with a Yiddish newspaper in front of his face as the customers came and went, so busy with their own daily business they hardly noticed him. He listened to the people talk about themselves and their neighbors; when he wanted to know more about a particular young woman, he sprung for a sandwich or a glass of schnapps. By Thursday afternoon he understood the lay of the land. He figured out what tasty dish belonged on which table, so to speak, so that by Friday night, when he presented himself to the shammes for a synagogue seat, he knew exactly which generous father he was about to take advantage of.

Dinner over, marriage contract all but signed, Tutsik Goldenberg always ended his first evening with his would-be in-laws the same way. "Imagine it, Reb Ansky, Reb Mordkhe, (in my case) Reb Teitelbaum. Here I have traveled all this way, for how many months, in search of just the woman who would make me happy. Me, a man who does business in South America, Constantinople, and all of Europe. And where do I find my love and my heart? Just here, in Chudnov, in Praga, in Kotsk, only miles from my little hometown. Ah, God has surely blessed me tonight." And even the most frum father of the most beloved bride-to-be—the soon-to-be shver of Tutsik Goldenberg, importer/exporter of diamonds and other fine jewels—was sorely tempted to break the Sabbath law and smoke one of his prospective aidim’s fine cigars. For he was soon to be a happy man, a rich man—by association and because of the bride price Tutsik Goldenberg had generously offered to pay. No dowry necessary. No, none at all! For hadn’t Tutsik Goldenberg been searching his life long for a perfect wife, and hadn’t he found her, his own beloved, here at this very table, in this very home?

This was the web he caught me in, that Tutsik Goldenberg, with his clean fingernails and his diamond-covered hands. Yes, I was the daughter at the table on that particular April night, just one week before Pesach. It was my challah cover that the father of the house was showing off to his honored guest at this Shabbes dinner; my hair brushed one hundred strokes; my meager chicken cooked to a turn; the rise of my lovely bosom and painted red lips. The glittering Goldenberg never once looked at me or my mother. His entire dinner was spent staring straight into my father’s eyes, joking with him, telling him stories of his life in faraway Argentina (for that is where we soon learned he came from), as if we, the women of the house, were invisible and his food and drink, the same food and drink my father was bragging about, appeared by magic.

He made me terribly uncomfortable. While I was used to being brushed aside by my father from time to time, in light of his more spiritual pursuits, and while my mother was often abrupt with me and tended to order me about, I was not at all used to being looked past in the way that Tutsik Goldenberg was looking past me now. In the kitchen, where we piled plates with chicken and potatoes, my mother whispered, What a wonderful, good-looking young man—

Young? I was incredulous. He’s thirty years old!

That’s not very old at all. My mother handed me a sprig of parsley to put on the plates. Play your cards right and he’ll make us all happy.

I turned my nose up. What I wanted to do was spit into Tutsik Goldenberg’s food. He’s an old man, I muttered, a cold fish. I borrowed a phrase of Tamar’s. To strengthen my case I pulled my lips up and down like a perch.

My mother grabbed my rouged face roughly in one hand and held her serving spoon up above me like a club. Cold fish or not, this young man is offering us the chance of a lifetime. Go give him his dinner, and when you do, smile.

It didn’t seem to bother her at all that my father was so obviously fascinated with Tutsik Goldenberg, he looked not only past me but past my mother as well, and only into our dinner guest’s lively eyes.

After that interminable, tasteless meal, the men retreated to my father’s study. I was relieved and was just about to slip out the door and down to Tamar’s flat when my father called my name. "Sofia, he shouted, which was very unlike him, come bring Reb Goldenberg some brandy!"

I pretended I didn’t hear him and continued to make for the door, but my mother tapped me on the shoulder and handed me the silver tray, Go now, she said sternly.

But he’s detestable, I whispered.

He’s rich, she said firmly, and very attractive. She straightened my bow and pinched my cheeks for color. I’m telling you, smile when you look at him if you know what’s good for us all.

I gripped the silver tray with both hands. My shoes pinched as I walked. The men were poring over a huge leather book, the collected works of Shakespeare translated to Yiddish. Tutsik Goldenberg was fingering the pages carefully as if they were cash. Oh, why didn’t I pretend to trip and spill the brandy everywhere?

Ah, Sofia, sweet daughter. Set the brandy down, my father told me when he looked up.

Now turn around. It was Tutsik Goldenberg who said this to me, sneering, And show me your stuff.

I first looked at my father, then at my mother. She stood behind me with a plate full of honey cake. They looked at each other helplessly. My father turned to Goldenberg.

I’m not sure, Reb Goldenberg, we understand your meaning.

Tutsik Goldenberg pulled himself up and shut the Shakespeare with a little pat. He cleared his throat and adjusted his rings. "You’ll pardon me, Reb Teitelbaum, but the night has made me merry. I’ve overstepped my bounds—I find your daughter so captivating. She intoxicates me and I become, you must forgive me, impertinent."

Not at all, my mother said suddenly. "Reb Goldenberg meant this as a compliment, my mother told my father, I’m certain."

For the first time all evening Goldenberg seemed to see my mother. He stood and took her hand, looked right into her eyes. "Chavereth Teitelbaum is not mistaken. It was a compliment from the heart of my giddiness. He looked sheepishly at my father. Reb Teitelbaum will find it in his heart to forgive me this Sabbath eve?"

Of course he will, chimed my mother.

Goldenberg dropped my mother’s hand and put his arm around my father’s shoulders. "Reb Teitelbaum, consider the mitzvah. Me, a lonely man, successful in business but with no one to share it, and suddenly, through the virtue of your generous hospitality, a miracle! No, Reb Teitelbaum, this is a double mitzvah. It happened on Shabbes—God will remember your goodness, and I will remember your goodness, mark my words."

My father shrugged. Then he slapped himself on the cheek and smiled. "These modern times, I don’t want to seem prudish, Reb Goldenberg, but you understand a father’s concern—"

Tutsik Goldenberg put a repentant hand to his heart. What is more sacred? he said, almost sadly. "My apologies, Reb Teitelbaum, my heart." He caught my eye, and I don’t know if my parents saw it, but I know for a fact he winked. It sent a shiver down my spine.

Then it was my father who spoke. "You know, Reb Goldenberg, we shouldn’t be making such arrangements on a Friday night, but times being as they are . . ."

Tutsik Goldenberg looked at my father with profound disbelief. "Reb Teitelbaum, do my ears deceive me? In spite of my incredible rudeness you are willing still to grant me my only wish?"

My father shrugged and nodded his head. "There is a God!, Goldenberg burst out, a God of loving kindness! And Chaver Yakov Teitelbaum, his messenger is you!"

There was much back slapping and more drinking. Even my mother partook. Myself, I retreated to the dark of my parents’ room and stared out the window. I could hear the men mumbling and laughing. Then my father roared my name. "Sofia! Sofia! Reb Goldenberg is leaving us for tonight. Come bid him good-bye."

I didn’t budge. My father kept calling me. Then my mother appeared in the doorway. Just because he was rude doesn’t mean you have to be. Besides, she hissed, "he apologized. Now go to him and say good night and do it with respect."

I could not move. My mother pulled me by the arm and dragged me to the dining room.

Goldenberg was once again adjusting one of his diamond rings. My father was agitated, full of false cheer when I appeared. "Ah, here she is, Reb Goldenberg. Our blushing bride . . . Sofia, please, say good night to your fiancé. You’re engaged to be married." Then he looked nervously at Tutsik Goldenberg, who looked up from his ring and smiled.

What? Engaged to him? That’s what this was all about from the start? My mother slapped me then and there.

"Now it is I must apologize to you, Reb Goldenberg, my father practically bowed, the shock of good news. My daughter is usually the most compliant of girls—"

Goldenberg got up from the table and, for the first time all evening, really looked at me, looked me up and down with a sly smile. He took the hand I held over my stinging cheek. "Don’t think about it twice, Reb Teitelbaum. I like a girl with a little spirit. I am only surprised that a girl so lovely as your daughter has not been snatched up much sooner." Then he kissed my hand but looked straight at my father. A horrible shudder ran through me.

In his custom, Tutsik Goldenberg took his leave of our table and disappeared from us for several weeks. A note came to my father by messenger the very next day. Sudden business troubles had developed and he was leaving for Odessa on the first train after Shabbes. He hoped the enclosed money would make a start for my trousseau. He would pay the balance of the bride price at their next meeting, which he hoped would not be too far in the future, perhaps a week or two after Pesach. In the meantime, again many thanks for the fine dinner, how honored he felt to be a future member of the Teitelbaum family, so sorry he could not be there to say his thanks in person, with much respect, etc. etc., Tutsik Goldenberg.

I was greatly relieved that he was gone. Even as my mother began to sew my wedding dress and my father began to arrange with the rabbi, I hoped against hope that Tutsik Goldenberg would never return.

Tamar and I spent hours alternately laughing (imagine it—the idea that I should be married!) and weeping. For Argentina was on the completely other side of the world, further than New York and with upside-down seasons, so that when it was snowing on Tamar here in Warsaw it would be sunny and warm on me. I want to get married someday, I said, but Tamar, that man is a monster. You should see the way he looks at me! And also, I thought, the way he does not.

Maybe he won’t come back, Tamar offered. I’ve heard of that, they make all kinds of promises and then they never show up again.

But he paid my father money. I saw it. And my mother has already started sewing a wedding dress.

Well, then, Tamar shrugged, there’s not much we can do.

Of course Tutsik Goldenberg did come back, three Shabbes evenings later, on the arm of my father, the two of them slapping each other on the back like old drinking pals. "Bayla! Sofia! Our diamond seller is back, our son-in-law! Set another place at the table, our